


what are you, like 12?

by PoeticallyIrritating



Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Middle School, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-18
Updated: 2014-09-18
Packaged: 2018-02-17 20:08:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2321738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoeticallyIrritating/pseuds/PoeticallyIrritating
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yes. They are literally 12. They are also <i>huge losers.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	what are you, like 12?

**Author's Note:**

> Based on tumblr user sharkodactyl's [middle school au](http://sharkodactyl.tumblr.com/tagged/middle%20school%20au/chrono).
> 
> Warnings for ableist and misogynistic language.

Rachel Duncan is re-applying her cherry lip gloss in the bathroom mirror when she smells cigarette smoke. “That will kill you, you know,” she says without turning around.

A gagging sound comes from behind the closed stall door. “I’m flushin’ it down the toilet,” reports a girl’s voice: British, like Rachel’s; lower-class, _unlike_ Rachel’s. “’N stay out of my business,” she adds.

The girl comes out of the stall as she speaks. She’s Rachel’s height, with long brown hair that looks like it hasn’t been brushed in a week. She spits into the sink, and then turns on the tap to fill her hands with water and rinse out her mouth.

Rachel turns to watch, eyebrows raised, hip pressing against the counter. “Did someone punch you in the face,” she says. “You seem to have a black eye. Or two.”

“Bitch,” the girl says back. The word comes out like it’s been waiting just behind her teeth the whole time. “Stay away from me.”

Then she’s gone.

Rachel would have been perfectly happy never to see the girl again, but as it turns out, they have Language Arts together. Rachel hasn’t noticed Sarah in her Language Arts class because she makes a point not to notice _anyone_ in her Language Arts class, because they are all _imbeciles._ She writes down the most inane questions—“Miss Anderson, is _Saturday_ a verb?”—and collects them in a tag on her LiveJournal. The girl from the bathroom doesn’t ask inane questions, or _any_ questions, because she is engrossed in covering her entire arm with intricate Sharpie artwork. She does, however, nod and grunt when Mrs. Anderson says, “Sarah Manning?” during roll call.

Rachel dislikes the name instantly.

At home, she types her daily blog post. In the final paragraph, she introduces a new player.

_I met a girl—let’s call her S.—today. We only exchanged a few words, but it became immediately clear that she is afflicted with all the ills that have befallen our generation, from the disastrous state of her clothing (no doubt purchased with the holes), to the eyeliner that resembled bruising as much as adorment, to the cloud of cigarette smoke that follows wherever she goes. She does not participate in class, which is likely why I didn’t know of her existence before today, despite our shared classroom. While this failing could be forgiven, considering the caliber of teachers this school continues to hire, she spends her time in class drawing on her arm in permanent marker. Perhaps ink poisoning could explain her utter lack of any redemptious qualities._

Across town, Sarah Manning pulls up her MySpace (black, complete with flashing gifs of bloody roses): _fuck school. fuck cigaretts. fuck ppl who judge u b4 they even kno ur name._

* * *

Something out there must have it out for Rachel, because Sarah Manning is in her P.E. class too. She sulks in the back corner of the gym, and she hasn’t changed into her P.E. clothes. “Forgot ’em,” she mutters to the coach, who reminds her that she’ll be docked points for not dressing out, and returns to the front of the gym. “Swing dancing!” he announces, with the kind of enthusiasm only someone completely deranged could muster. “We talked about theory yesterday, so now it’s time to partner up!”

Boys don’t flock to Rachel, just like boys have _never_ flocked to Rachel, and she doesn’t care at _all_ because middle school boys are _idiots_ whose only skills seem to be drawing crude depictions of genitalia on every available surface. However, it would have been nice if at least _one_ boy had asked her to dance—she is _blonde,_ after all, which is one thing that boys seem universally to like—and now that all the boys have found other girls to dance with…oh.

Oh, _no._

“Looks like we’ve got some leftover girls!” crows the coach. Rachel sucks air through her braces and says absolutely nothing to Sarah as she shuffles up. The glower, she thinks, probably says it all.

“Now take your partner by the hands,” Coach calls out.

Rachel holds her arms stiffly in front of her. Sarah doesn’t move. _“Hold my hands,”_ says Rachel through gritted teeth, “or we’re going to _fail_ participation for the day.”

Sarah lets out a dramatic, long-suffering sigh before grabbing Rachel’s outstretched hands.

Coach starts the music. Rachel nods in time with it, craning her neck around to try and watch the steps that Coach and his high school assistant are demonstrating at the front of the gym. Sarah’s hands are like dead weight on the ends of her arms, dragging her back.

“Boys, spin your partners!” Coach calls out, and Rachel turns back to Sarah with her eyes hard.

“I’m _not_ bein’ the boy,” Sarah says.

“Well _I’m_ definitely not going to be the boy.”

Their hands, sweaty now, slip-slide together.

“Your arms are longer,” says Sarah.

“You’re taller,” Rachel snaps back.

“No I’m not.”

“In your stupid shoes you are,” Rachel says, glaring at Sarah’s clunky combat boots. “Just _spin me_ already.” She’s stopped going through the motions with her feet, but she still resolutely bobs her head.

“You spin _me,”_ says Sarah. “And stop doing that with your head, you look stupid.”

Rachel’s head jolts like she’s been slapped. “Coach is going to come over here,” she says. _“Spin me,_ or I’ll tell on you for smoking in the bathroom.”

 “Fine,” Sarah says through gritted teeth. She jerks Rachel’s arm above their heads. “ _Go,_ then.”

Rachel spins, smug, and then starts following the steps again: left-together, right-together, forward-touch, forward-touch—but Sarah accomplishes nothing but some extra clunking in her shoes.

“You could at least _try,”_ Rachel says, exasperation making her words come out in sighs. “If we don’t get a perfect participation grade…”

“You gonna blackmail me again? I could…” She thinks for a second. “I could break your fingers.”

Rachel snatches back her hands.

Sarah grins. “Who’s not participating now?”

“You threatened me!” Rachel shrieks. “I could go to the principal!”

“Aw, shut up,” Sarah says, rolling her eyes. “I dunno how to break someone’s finger.”

“It’s still a threat,” Rachel says, a little quieter now. “Technically—”

“Seriously, _shut up,”_ Sarah says.

“If you actually try to dance with me,” says Rachel, “I’ll stop talking.”

Sarah groans. _“Fine.”_ She wipes her hands on her pants before returning them to Rachel. “Bitch.”

They get back into sync with the group, Rachel muttering the steps under her breath. “You said you’d shut up,” Sarah says, and Rachel says them _louder._ “Step-together, step-together, STEP-TOGETHER.”

They finish class breathless and furious. “Fuckin’ hate this whole fuckin’ system,” Sarah mutters as she walks away. “This fuckin’ school.” Behind her back, Rachel extends her middle finger.

Rachel’s blog post for the evening includes a detailed description of the event. _I was partnered with S. for swing dancing, resulting in one of the most frustrating experiences of my life. The Universe must be conciliating against me; this is the only explanation that I can comprehend, except perhaps that S. is deliberately and consciensiously trying to ruin my life._

Sarah (or rather, ★♥SaRaH♥★)’s MySpace post that night reads: _fuck the system!!!!!!_

She makes a forum post in a different corner of the internet: _im a girl and i think a girl likes me what do i do????????????? i cant tell if she hates me or has a crush on me or wat. i hate her too but its not like shes ugly or anything???_

* * *

Rachel is sitting engrossed in a third reread of _Eclipse_ in a corner of the soccer field when someone comes up to her.

“Are you seriously reading that shit,” says Sarah.

Rachel snaps the book shut. “As opposed to whatever inane drivel _you_ read?”

“Come on, at least get somethin’ with _good_ vampires.”

“This series,” Rachel says through gritted teeth, “is revolutionary. She completely reimagines the traditional vampire mythos.” It’s a line from a particularly good essay on _Twilight_ that she read online.

“She makes borin’-as-shit vampires,” says Sarah. “Come on, they _sparkle.”_

“A superficial criticism,” she says, quoting a section heading. _(Sparkly Vampires: A Superficial Criticism.)_

“They’re _boring,”_ she insists. “Come on, vampires have gotta be like— _grawr!”_ She makes a snarling sound.

“That’s groundbreaking,” says Rachel. “What do you suggest.”

“You gotta watch _Buffy_ or somethin’. _Real_ vampires that _bite_ people. Not weird pale douchebags.”

 _“Television,”_ Rachel says, with a sneer. “You’re joking.”

“You’re such a snobby _bitch,”_ Sarah says. If Rachel’s eyes aren’t deceiving her, Sarah has stomped her foot. “Why am I talking to you?”

“I have no idea,” says Rachel. “I was minding my own business.” She opens her book again, sliding her howling-wolf bookmark in between the last page and the back cover. “I would like to be left alone.”

Sarah rolls her eyes. _“Fine,”_ she says. “Jeez.”

* * *

Rachel starts loitering by the bus stop after school. She doesn’t take the bus, of course, not when her parents can hire a dozen drivers if they want; this is purely reconnaissance. She leans casually against a tree, curling her hair behind her ear, and watches Sarah get on the bus. In the mornings, she takes to arriving a little bit earlier than usual, just in time to see the mob from the bus push its way through the school gates.

On her blog, she has dubbed this _Mission Alpha._ The official mission statement reads: _Though seeing S. in classes is unavoidable, it is possible to stay away from her at all other times if I can determine the details of her schedule. This will be acheived by following her for the next week so I can figure out which places to avoid._

Another post contains the facts she learns. It grows over the course of the week.

_S.’s Schedule:_

  *          _Takes bus to and from school._
  *          _Listens to music LOUDLY on the bus. (When she gets off in the morning, her headphones are still blasting. Usually punk.)_
  *          _Eats lunch in the far corner of the cafeteria, then goes to watch people playing on the basketball courts._
  *          _1st period: Math_
  *          _2nd period: Health_
  *          _3rd period: Home Ec_
  *          _4th period: P.E._
  *          _5th period: Science_
  *          _6th period: Language Arts_
  *          _7th period: Spanish_



She fails to account for weekends. At the end of her recon week she is invited to a party by a girl from her math class. “No drinking,” the girl assures her. “It’s a boy-girl party, but the boys’ll go home at eleven and the girls can spend the night.”

Rachel shows up at the house, pillow and sleeping bag in tow, and as soon as she comes inside she sees a familiar shape parked at the Dorito bowl. “Sarah,” she growls out, when the girl turns around. Sarah scowls at her with orange-stained lips.

She manages to stay at the opposite end of the room from Sarah for most of the evening, but after pizza, Melody corrals them all into playing party games. So she ends up sitting in a circle with ten other people playing Spin the Bottle, staring Sarah right in the face.

“No!” shrieks a tiny girl, Oona, when her bottle lands on Melody. “I’m not kissing a _girl.”_

“Fine,” Melody says loftily, “then we’ll have to have a punishment.”

“Cut off her hand,” says a boy in the corner, grinning viciously.

“Oh my god, shut up, Mark.”

Rachel suggests a spoonful of hot sauce, and she says it in the kind of way that makes people listen.

“Gross,” says Oona mournfully. She leans in to kiss Melody like walking to a funeral, and pushes out her lips so she just barely touches the other girl’s mouth. A boy whoops. (“Shut _up._ ”)

Rachel delivers pecks to Mark and another boy whose name she didn’t bother to learn. Melody kisses _her,_ light and brief. When she spins the bottle for the third time—

“No,” she and Sarah say at the same time.

“No fuckin’ way,” says Sarah.

“I’m not kissing _her,”_ says Rachel.

“Then you both have to do the punishment,” says Melody. She seems a little too gleeful about this.

Sarah and Rachel’s eyes meet for the first time all night.

“I’m not eatin’ that shit,” says Sarah.

“I’m not _losing,”_ says Rachel. She feels like she’s made of fire and she doesn’t know if it’s because she’s angry or if it’s something else.

“Okay then,” says Sarah.

“Okay,” Rachel repeats.

Sarah shuffles on her knees toward the middle of the circle. Rachel follows suit, scooting in towards her.

“This doesn’t mean I don’t hate you,” Rachel says.

“Me neither,” says Sarah.

“A _lot,”_ she insists.

“Me too.”

Their faces are very close together now, and she can feel Sarah’s breath on her face. _Gross,_ she wants to think, like Oona, but instead she’s staring at Sarah’s lips and feeling like they might be kind of nice after all—they look soft, and Melody’s lips were soft, and Sarah is—

Kissing her, Sarah’s _kissing_ her, and she’s kissing _back,_ and it feels— _confusing;_ it feels like their mouths fit together like puzzle pieces and that’s _wrong_ because Sarah and Rachel are like gnashing teeth or warring vampire sects; they don’t _fit_.

“Get a room!” shouts someone, and they both jerk so suddenly that their foreheads knock together. Rachel leaps back to her seat in the circle, face hot, and emphatically _doesn’t_ look at Sarah, doesn’t glance up to see Sarah’s cheeks pink too, doesn’t look at Sarah’s lips to see where _her_ lips were just touching. She definitely does _not._

The next day, Rachel makes her shortest blog post ever. _I need to re-evaluate some things,_ it says. She stares at it for a long time before posting.

Sarah’s MySpace post is equally short.

_i kissed a girl!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!_


End file.
